


wish there was a treaty, between your love and mine

by questionsthemselves



Series: steer your way through the ruins [1]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Annnnnnngsst, Flashbacks, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sort Of, mostly the fault of AbomidableSnowDude, not really a fix-it after all, one way it might have gone in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-01-10 08:38:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12295449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsthemselves/pseuds/questionsthemselves
Summary: Stakar’s the one to take off Yondu’s chains, after.The trial’s over, been over, but despite Stakar’s feeble protests the council had decided to wait until the verdict had been read before releasing him. He forces his hands not to shake, his solar wings not to glow as reaches for the buckle holding the gag in place. It’s filthy, coated in spit and he drops it hatefully to the ground.Martinex stands behind him. He hasn’t spoken a word since the vote, face blank and implacable. As the others filed off the dais though to leave Stakar and Yondu alone, Martinex had stayed.





	1. i’m sorry for the ghost I made you be

**Author's Note:**

> This is ENTIRELY THE FAULT of AbominableSnowDude – for singlehandedly making me ship this _so hard_ and creating the angstiest of ideas and plotting them with me - this is all for you, I hope you're happy with yourself. ;)  <3 <3 <3

Stakar’s the one to take off Yondu’s chains, after. 

The trial’s over, been over, but despite Stakar’s feeble protests the council had decided to wait until the verdict had been read before releasing him. He forces his hands not to shake, his solar wings not to glow as reaches for the buckle holding the gag in place. It’s filthy, coated in spit and he drops it hatefully to the ground. As sick as he is thinking on what brought them here, as much as the scraped raw wound of betrayal hurts pulsing in his chest, he’d never wanted this, never wanted to put Yondu in chains on like the ones he’d broken those years ago. 

Martinex stands behind him. He hasn’t spoken a word since the vote, face blank and implacable. As the others filed off the dais though to leave Stakar and Yondu alone, Martinex had stayed. 

Stakar can’t imagine how hard this has been for him, too. It had always been obvious to him, the unspoken thing the two of them had together. Stakar knows after all, though he was the one to scoop Yondu out of the hellacious cesspit where he’d been left to die, Martinex was the one who taught him how to be a Ravager. Martinex was the one to show him how to stand his ground and spit back in the faces of people who mocked him, sat with him quiet when everything got too much. Martinex loved him, and Yondu had loved him back.

And now they’re here.

The only sound is the sickening rattle the links make as they fall. Stakar expects Yondu to use his release to start spitting a flow of obscenities and black curses at him for doing this, but the air bleeds nothing but silence. 

As he loosens the last bond he forces himself to look up, unwilling to send Yondu away without giving him the last courtesy to look him in the eyes while he does it. Whatever he was expecting to see though, this isn’t it. Yondu’s face is placid, dull, eyes out of focus and lips slack. He hasn’t moved his hands from where they dropped to his side when Stakar released them and as he stares in horror Yondu’s knees creak slowly into a bend, hitting the floor with a dull thud as his chin drops forward in obeisance. 

The sight of him, prostrate hangs in the air and then Stakar’s stumbling roughly backward, mouth falling open in horror and wings flaring bright as he stutters out a scrambled string of _nononononono_ and pleading orders at the sight of his loud, swaggering boy, kneeling blank and quiescent. 

He almost can’t think through the thick syrup of shock in his head, but Martinex is moving, settling fluid on his knees in front of Yondu. There’s a pause as he lifts his hands, waits, then cups Yondu’s face slowly, rubbing gently on his scalp and thumbing softly at the sides of Yondu’s bruised and spit-crusted mouth.

 

Yondu’s not there anymore. He’s not there, and nothing is touching him, nothing hurts and nothing matters. Something gibbering and wailing in the back of his mind wants to care, wants to rage and recoil, hide or fight back. It’s easy to ignore though because everything in front of him isn’t really real, his body not really attached to him.

His bonds are being released, and some part of him stays watching, waiting for a command. There’s always a next command, and a next, so he’s confused when it doesn’t come. He sinks to his knees, knows it’s probably not the right thing but at least this might buy him leniency, if they see he’s trying. It probably won’t. 

The stocky man in front of him (not a Kree?) has something strangely familiar about him that niggles at Yondu’s mind, but he’s yelling out things in Xandarian too fast for Yondu’s translator implant to catch. He blinks, lowers his head and tilts to bare his neck subserviently. This man may not be Kree, but owners always did like things like that, reminders of how capriciously your life was held in their grip.

Then someone’s cupping his face between their hands, cool and smooth against Yondu’s hot, aching face, it’s feels so good and it’s _so hard_ not to press back into them. Then the hands are petting him, soothing at his skin and he flicks his eyes warily up to see there’s someone on his knees too, in front of him. His eyes are gold and soft and sorrowful, and he glitters like he’s made of a thousand crystal stars, bright against the somber navy leathers he’s wearing. 

Yondu blinks, feels that niggling voice at the back of his head start cutting through the comforting fog around him, helped by that face, those hands. His breath is speeding, his ears are starting to roar and he can feel minute shakes starting to wave through him no matter how hard he’s trying to control them, trying to stay still and quiescent.

Something in his head is cracking, tiny breaks juddering through it and he doesn’t know what’s going on anymore, none of this is normal and he’s shaking and shaking and a cool hand grips the back of his neck gently, says, “It’s okay, it’s _okay_ , Yondu you’re safe,” and his world falls apart. 

 

Through the trial, through the laying out of damning evidence and the reading of the code, Martinex had stayed silent. He’d stayed silent when the judgement was read, when Yondu was exiled to a lonely life and a death without the Colors to light his way to the next. He’d stayed silent when they’d filed out to leave Stakar to make sure Yondu was led off his ship for the last time. After all, what other choice did the council have? 

But…there’s something still off about this whole situation, something Martinex can’t put his finger on. Martinex knows Yondu, knows him almost better than he knows himself, and Yondu may be young and impulsive and greedy for everything he’s never had, but he’s never been callously cruel. Somehow the Kree hadn’t managed to crush out that soft, sentimental spot Yondu liked to pretend he didn’t have, and for him to knowingly courier countless children to their deaths? It didn’t add up. 

So when Yondu falls to his knees, Martinex falls to his. He reaches for Yondu’s face, tries to ground him like he’s done before only now it doesn’t seem to be working. Yondu’s still limp and shivering, eyes cycling between blankness and something that’s broken and utterly terrified.

It’s wrong, soul-deeply, horrifyingly wrong, for Yondu to look like this. _Fuck_ the stars-damned council, and fuck their judgements – like hell is Martinex leaving him alone now. 

“It’s okay, ’m here, not going anywhere,” Martinex starts up a soothing murmer, hopes the familiar cadence of his voice might get through. It must, because Yondu’s collapsing like his supports are crumbling underneath him, and he slumps forward into Marty.He’s making these horrible sounds like he can’t breathe, and Marty pulls him half into his lap so he can rub at his back, hold him close like he’s trying to hold him together. 

“Should I…” 

Marty jerks up at the sound of Stakar’s voice. He’d been so focused on Yondu, he’d almost forgotten Stakar was there. There’s something lost and self-loathing in his eyes, and he reaches for Yondu like he’s afraid he’ll burn him with his touch. Martinex exhales, doesn’t say anything. 

“Son, look at me, c’n you hear me?” Stakar finally rests his hand on Yondu’s shoulder, pulls gently at it trying to get him to look his way, but then Yondu wrenches himself backwards. His fingers scrabble against the floor and then bringing his hands in front of him almost instinctively, wrists cross as he starts slurring out apologies. He’s slurring the same words over, and over, something in lower Kree that Marty’s translator implant can’t quite catch and he can’t bear it, can’t bear to see Yondu like this. 

He turns to snarl at Stakar, “Get _back,_ you’re setting him off,” but Stakar seems frozen, eyes widening in cold horror and he says blankly, “Marty, he’s calling me master, he’s saying sorry _master._ ”


	2. only one of us was real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yondu blinks wetly, the world slowly piecing itself back into focus. He can hear himself still spilling words mindless in Lower Kree, like he’s been punctured and they’re leaking out of him. They’re rote apologies, the kind of obsequious pleas he’d said so many times they’re forever inked poison in his tongue. He bites his lower lip until he tastes blood, sucks in air through his teeth until he makes himself quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was supposed to be a fix-it but it refused to. it will thought have a companion piece eventually set post-Ego, probably longer that this will more or less end up being a prequel for. mind of their own, fics, i swear.

Yondu blinks wetly, the world slowly piecing itself back into focus. He can hear himself still spilling words mindless in Lower Kree, like he’s been punctured and they’re leaking out of him. They’re rote apologies, the kind of obsequious pleas he’d said so many times they’re forever inked poison in his tongue. He bites his lower lip until he tastes blood, sucks in air through his teeth until he makes himself quiet. 

Somehow he’s ended up on the floor at Stakar's feet, his bonds and chains littered taunting around him. Shame washes through his veins like sulphuric acid, burning him from the inside out. 

“Yondu…?” Martinex’s hands are hesitant on his shoulders, tracing lightly down them and Yondu turns away, makes his body work through the numbness to push himself weakly upright. Like hell he’s gonna just sit there and let them gawk.

His legs as shaky as a drunk f’saki’s, and they nearly collapse out from under him as he stumbles towards the door. He doesn’t look back. There’s nothing more than bits of rope, and metal, and other things better left behind. 

Exile. Something aches sharp just under his sterum, and he presses at it hard. Cut-off, shamed, no right to the Ravager flame on his chest or the Colors to shine over his grave. The shuffle of his feet against the floor echoes around the metal walls, and he forces himself to turn his steps solid.

Kraglin will be waiting for him at the ship. His first mate had been so sure the Admiral would would listen, the Admiral would understand. 

The whole crew will know what happened by now. 

Yondu’s nearly to the door. His throat burns as he swallows against the dryness. If only he’d brought a hypo with him, something to at least take off the edge. Not like that will matter soon though. There’s a rite, for times like these, and Kraglin will do his duty. 

“Yondu…” Martinex’s voice is soft like hopeless things behind him. Yondu doesn’t look back. 

 

 

Martinex pushes to his feet, fists clenched by his side as he watches Yondu stagger stubbornly away. Somehow he’d taken it for granted that Yondu would always be here, charming and swaggering his way through the stars, blazing into Martinex’s life whenever the galaxy led him there. 

And now, he won’t. 

Except… Martinex turns to Stakar.

“There’s more to this, something more Yondu wouldn’t tell us,” he squares off in front of his captain. “What he was saying, there’s something bigger going on here than just a scumbag slave-trader.”

“This doesn’t change anything though,” Stakar face is wiped blank as slate, the arcs on his shoulders dull and lightless. “He knew what this would mean, if there was something more to this, something that would have mitigated the charges, he would have told us.” 

“Would he have?” Martinex steps forward, leans in, “You know him, you _know_ how he gets–“

“Martinex,” Stakar lifts a hand, looks away. “Enough.” 

Martinex doesn’t move.

“There should’ve been something else, there must have been something we could have done.”

Stakar still won’t look at him, and Martinex can’t do this, he can’t be here anymore surrounded by the broken evidence of how he’s failed. If only Yondu had spoken to him about this before it’d got this bad… but they didn’t as talk much anymore, since Yondu’d made captain. He’d had never wanted to be tied to anything more than the flame on his chest, so Martinex had never tried. But _fuck,_ how he’d wanted to.

Martinex’s shoulders curl in and without another word he turns and strides into the hall. 

 

 

“ _Your_ fault.”

Stakar blinks startled, turns toward the voice. 

Aleta. Martinex must have told her Stakar was still in here. She stomps to a half in front of him, grabs the edge of his jacket with one fist. 

“This is _your fault,_ ” she says louder then reels back with her other first and punches him square in the jaw. Stakar grabs his cheek, ignores the throb where Aleta’s punch had landed true. 

“Aleta…” he reaches a tentative hand for her, but she slaps it away.

“You should have listened to me, should have tried to talk with him first before you called this whole fucking farce of a trial,” Aleta eyes burn like banked coal, and she’s shed her dress jacket to bare the wild swirl of her tattoos. “You’ve practically signed his death warrant.” 

And Stakar would argue, but he can’t. He knows the code, knows what it will demand of Yondu’s first mate. 

“He broke the code,” Stakar has to remember that, he needs to, “The council voted.”

“ _Fuck_ the council,” Aleta hisses brittle, “And fuck you for standing by.”

She jerks around, hair spraying out behind her as she stomps toward the hanger bay. 

She’s leaving too.

Stakar breathes. 

 

 

Yondu’s nearly at the _Eclector_ bridge doors. It’s time. The fate of the condemned captain is not the fate of the crew, and Yondu won’t bring his Ravagers down with him. 

It’s strangely quiet, only the sound of his staggered breathing, the wool-rasp of his dress uniform. The collar itches against the sensitive skin along his spine, and he pushes his shoulder blades tight, hikes them high to ease it. 

His flame rests heavy over his heart, and he thinks on how it will sound falling to the floor at Kraglin’s feet. When Kraglin demands it, he won’t force him into a challenge. Yondu’s never seen one, knows Kraglin hasn’t either but they both know the stories, know the Code. They both know what this situation demands of them. 

A codebreaker can’t lead a Ravager crew. It’s the duty of his second to ensure that. 

The bridge door biolock glows red. His hand raises like it’s being pulled through quicksand. The biolock glows green.

The _Eclector_ crew is standing in formation in front of him. Except, that can’t be right. There’s only maybe sixty strong, only a little more than half of those on board. Kraglin’s at the lead, his whip-wire of a first mate staring at him with something wild and steady as burner-fire in his eyes.

Yondu digs sharp nails into his palm, opens his mouth to speak but stops as Kraglin curls his own hand into a fist. 

This is it. 

Except, instead of extending it in challenge, Kraglin’s fist hits his skinny chest once, twice, with the dull thump of skin against leather.

“Cap’n.”

Kraglin’s voice is a declaration, an intransigent pledge of a first mate to his captain. Behind him, the crew beat their chests in time, murmur in echo.

Yondu can’t move, can’t breath. 

Kraglin steps forward, lowers his head deferentially. 

“The navs have us mapped to Knowhere, cap’n, figure we could recruit there, bulk up a little?” 

Kraglin isn’t challenging him. Near half the crew has deserted instead of staying to see the rise of their new captain. Kraglin… Kraglin must have–

Yondu pulls himself up.

There won’t be a challenge. He won’t be killed, or marooned in some god-forsaken star system. The crew here stands with him. _Kraglin_ stands with him. Something still vibrates hurting and hollow inside his bones, but it’s easing slow. Yondu clears his throat, shuffles his feet wider forces numb feature to arrange themselves into calm control. 

“Well then,” Yondu strides towards his command chair, as crew part before him, “Take us out, Obfonteri.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments feed the hungry author's soul <3


End file.
